Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX6AXWMKWRV8M77AYWTSFX

The knock came just after midnight, sharp and insistent, like someone had pressed their knuckles against the wood and refused to lift them. Rory froze mid-sip, the lukewarm tea sloshing over the rim of her mug. Ptolemy’s ears twitched, his tail flicking once before he slunk under the sofa. No one visited at this hour—not unless they were lost, drunk, or carrying bad news. She set the mug down with a quiet *clink* and wiped her palms on her thighs. The flat smelled of old paper and the faint, lingering spice of the curry house below. Three deadbolts. She’d installed them herself after the last time Evan had shown up unannounced, his voice slurring apologies through the door. But this wasn’t Evan’s rhythm. This was someone who expected to be let in. The knock came again, harder this time. “Rory. Open up.” Her breath hitched. That voice—smooth as aged whiskey, laced with something darker. She hadn’t heard it in over a year, not since the night she’d walked out of his office in Soho without looking back. Not since the argument that had left her wrist throbbing where his fingers had dug in, not in anger, but in desperation. She crossed the room in three strides and pressed her eye to the peephole. The fish-eye lens warped him, but there was no mistaking the slicked-back platinum hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he stood like he owned the hallway. Lucien Moreau. The Frenchman. Her ex-business partner. Her ex-*something else*, too, though neither of them had ever given it a name. His amber-and-black gaze flicked up, as if he could see her through the door. “I know you’re there.” She exhaled through her nose and undid the deadbolts one by one. The last one stuck, and she had to jiggle it before it gave with a metallic groan. The door swung open just enough to reveal him in full—tailored charcoal suit, ivory-handled cane tapping against the scuffed linoleum, the faintest scent of bergamot and something smoky clinging to him. “You look like hell,” he said. She didn’t bother with a greeting. “What do you want, Lucien?” His lips quirked, not quite a smile. “Charming as ever.” He tilted his head, taking in the flat behind her—the stacks of books, the half-empty takeaway containers, the way her fingers still hovered near the doorframe, ready to slam it shut. “May I come in?” “No.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter: “Please.” That word, from *him*, sent a jolt through her. Lucien Moreau didn’t beg. He didn’t *ask*. He *took*. Or he paid. Or he manipulated. But he didn’t stand in doorways at midnight with his heterochromatic eyes dark and his voice rough around the edges, saying *please* like it cost him something. She stepped back. He didn’t move at first, as if he expected a trap. Then he crossed the threshold, his cane clicking against the floor. The door swung shut behind him with a finality that made her stomach twist. The flat suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. Ptolemy chose that moment to emerge from under the sofa, tail puffed, and let out a low, warning growl. Lucien’s gaze flicked to the cat. “Still haven’t house-trained that thing, I see.” “He’s not a thing.” She folded her arms. “And you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?” He set his cane against the armchair and unbuttoned his jacket with deliberate slowness. The movement drew her eye to the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the faint outline of something dark and inked beneath the fabric. A new tattoo, maybe. Or an old one she’d never seen. “Business,” he said. “At midnight?” “You used to keep later hours.” “That was before.” Before *you*. Before the job in Prague that had gone sideways. Before the night in his office when he’d pressed her against the desk and whispered things in French that had made her skin burn, only to pull away like she’d scalded him. Before she’d realised that whatever they were doing, it wasn’t just business, and that terrified him more than any demon contract ever could. She turned away, busying herself with the kettle. “Tea?” “No.” “Whiskey, then.” “No.” She paused, her back still to him. “Then what do you want, Lucien?” The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that pressed against her ribs. She could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, like he was measuring his words. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost careful. “I need your help.” She turned, leaning against the counter. “With what?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Not paper—parchment, yellowed and brittle at the edges. He held it out between two fingers. She didn’t take it. “What is it?” “A ledger.” “For?” “A job.” She exhaled through her nose. “I’m not in the business anymore.” “You’re delivering takeaway for a Chinese restaurant.” “It’s honest work.” “It’s beneath you.” Her fingers twitched. “You don’t get to decide what’s beneath me.” His jaw tightened, just for a second. Then he set the parchment on the counter between them, smoothing it flat with his palm. The ink was faded, the handwriting looping and precise. Names. Dates. Amounts. And at the bottom, a symbol she recognised—the same one that had been carved into the doorframe of the safe house in Prague. Her stomach dropped. “You’re still working for them,” she said. “Not by choice.” “Bullshit.” His eyes flashed, the black one swallowing the amber for a second. “You think I *want* to be tangled up with the Avarosian syndicate again? After what happened last time?” She remembered the blood on his cuffs. The way his hands had shaken when he’d pressed them to her face, his voice raw. *Run.* She pushed the memory away. “Then why are you here?” “Because you’re the only one who can get me out.” The kettle whistled, sharp and shrill. She turned off the heat and poured the water into her mug, her movements deliberate. “I’m not your get-out-of-jail-free card, Lucien.” “No.” His voice was quieter now. “But you’re the only one who knows how they think. How *I* think.” She looked at him then, really looked. The shadows under his eyes. The way his fingers drummed once against the counter before he stilled them. The tension in his shoulders, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. “You’re scared,” she realised. His laugh was humourless. “Terrified.” The word hung between them, raw and honest. Lucien Moreau, half-demon fixer, man who’d once told her he didn’t know the meaning of fear, was standing in her flat at midnight admitting he was terrified. And god help her, she believed him. She picked up the parchment, her fingers brushing his. A spark. A memory. His hand on her wrist, his thumb tracing the crescent scar there. *You’re bleeding.* She dropped the ledger like it burned her. “Tell me everything,” she said.